


you leave me breathless

by katarasvevo



Category: Love Simon (2018)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Making Out, POV Outsider, i am pandering to my base instincts, just the way i like it, like the first half, warning: this is v extremely gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 15:15:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14083743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katarasvevo/pseuds/katarasvevo
Summary: Kissing Simon Spier feels a lot like being at the top of the world, Bram thinks. Because both always leave him breathless and wide-eyed. Wonderstruck.Or: two times people catch Bram staring at Simon, and one time Simon does.





	you leave me breathless

**Author's Note:**

> i CAVED bcs im a shamelessly weak creature  
> why is strawberries + cigarettes such a bop ugh it's so powerful

**i.your eyes meeting mine**

 

Bram Greenfeld always looks at Simon like he is a sunset, Leah’s come to notice. They are sitting on the bleachers, under a sky that’s so bright it’s edge-of-summer blue, when Leah looks up from her sketchbook, distracted by a sudden onslaught of laughter coming from her right.

Her head turns. Figures.  It’s Simon - dorky, dorky Simon - and he is waving his phone around, showing Bram, Abby, and Nick an image from his phone. Nick’s got on a wide grin, and he’s rolling his eyes, and Abby is snickering into his shoulder, lightly nudging at Simon’s leg with her foot.

Bram seems just as amused as they are, just as - _fond_ , Leah supposes? - but.

But.

There, that look on his face. The soft way his mouth is curved. The way his body is angled - in a sort of loose posture, shoulders lowered. Relaxed.

His eyes are fixed on Simon in a pensive gaze, the kind you would reserve for quiet, everyday moments. Like a sunrise. Or a sunset.

Something you’ve seen a million times, but each time is a renewed experience, somehow. Shaded a little bit differently. It might be white-gold one day, aquamarine the other. But you always know what you’re going to get: colour diffusing across a lightless sky, like happiness settling into your bones after a ribcage-cracking laugh.

Leah thinks.

Bram never looks at Simon like he wants to tear off his clothes. (At least, not in public, thank Jesus.) There’s no fire, no sparks. And certainly not that sharp, short-lived burn of newly formed passion, the type shown in those stupid noontime soaps where they make out touches and glances to be all-consuming, world-ending. Mercurial and volatile. Here one moment, gone the next. Like the flame of a matchstick ground against asphalt.

Obviously, Leah doesn't believe in love that way. It’s pretty stupid, not to mention grossly dramatic. (She’s always been a sort of cynic, actually. And she’d much rather not revisit the reasons why.)

Anyway.

So, back to the look on Bram’s face. The way she sees it, she’d say that it is something … soft-edged, tender. Laced with a form of familiarity, like he has been looking at Simon for a very long time, indeed.

The tells are all there, almost imperceptible, but Leah’s been in the game long enough to recognize them.

Now, hypothetically speaking, if Leah believed in love - which she doesn’t, not really, at least - and was asked why, she’d say it was this.

“... but doesn’t this seem asshole-shaped to you? Like, ew, it’s super weird and puckered up - okay, Jesus, stop booing me, I’ll have you know that my lawyer declared this to be an unconstitutional affront, you’re breaking the Ten Commandments here, guys - and no, I’m not going to shut up,” Simon says, and Bram laughs at Simon, all soft-eyed and dimpled.

A small smile tugs at Leah’s lips. Yeah, definitely this.

Then Simon sticks out his tongue at him, and Bram laughs harder, Nick and Abby joining along, and now there’s a bubble of warmth in Leah’s chest that is expanding. Growing. Built out of this golden, sun-drenched memory.

Simon playfully squishes Bram’s cheek. Bram narrows his eyes, but there’s a bright twinkle in his eyes that betrays his amusement. That seems reserved only for Simon.

Leah thinks again: they’re damn good for each other. They really, really are.

And you know what else? She’s really, really happy for them.

For Bram.

For Simon.

 

**ii. a choir in my ears**

 

It’s fucking pandemonium in here tonight, and while Garrett isn’t piss-drunk at the moment, he sure is piss-tired. Piss-angry, too. Like, who _wouldn’t be_ if their whole goddamn house was a mess, all upended chairs and sticky floors. Spilt drinks, crumpled chip bags, Dollar-Tree streamers, confetti, the whole shebang. Three idiots fumbling under his dad’s Ultra Expensive mahogany table, attempting a -

What. The. Fuck.

“Hey, assholes, this isn’t the fucking Playboy Mansion, jerk off at your own place, will you?” Garrett slurs at them, jaw clenched, highly irritable. They quickly scram, bolting out of the door to presumably continue their threesome behind the bushes, or on the road, or in their grandmother’s basement, or - whatever, Garrett doesn’t give a flying shit. To hell with it.

He’s never throwing another party at his place ever again.

If he thought the dining room was bad, the backyard is even worse, like some juvie kids on some la-la-land acid trip trashed the whole place down, which, really, is fucking hilarious because Garrett doesn’t remember them being on his damn guest list of honour. If things are already this terrible .. oh, god, what if - what if someone took a leak on his mom’s imported hydrangeas -

Garrett retreats back into the house, too terrified to consider the possibility.

There’s a fizzling buzz in his blood that’s dulling his senses, sharpening his irritability, the fast-tempo drum beat roaring from the speakers only making it ten times worse. It’s heavy on the bass, heavier on the rim shots, heaviest on that annoying twangy quality, and Garrett can only describe it as gasoline that is being poured into the bonfire that is his rage level.

He stumbles into the living room in record time and groans. A makeshift stage has been erected in the middle, with the karaoke equipment resting on top of it. Simon and Bram are swaying around onstage, belting the lyrics of “Baby One More Time” into their shared microphone. It’s not exactly a harmonious duet, their voices failing to synchronize at critical notes, but whatever. Could’ve been worse.

At the corner, some doofus Garrett’s sixty-five percent sure is their school’s resident stoner boy is flailing his arms about, mouth frothing - as in, actually frothing, like the foaming mouth guy from that one show that Bram’s really into, where there’s this hyperactive bald kid with a blue tattoo. Avatar, was it? He doesn’t remember.

(Alcohol’s a bad bitch. Like, he’s not even full-on wasted, but already he feels like shit. Head fuzzy, mouth sour, dick limp, all that jazz. He’s ready to die now, thanks.)

Then, the song reaches its last leg, and a round of applause breaks out. Arms linked, Simon and Bram bow tipsily, nearly staggering off the stage, and Garrett coughs to hide a snicker.

“You go, Spier!” someone hoots from the crowd. A few whistles of assent accompany the remark.

“Greenfeld, you’re on fire!”

Just as Garrett is about to draw this gathering to an unfortunate close, another track comes up. Only this time, it’s a languid, timeless number - honey in his ears. Sweet, with that aged vinyl quality. Completely out-of-place against the blinking strobe lights and drunken atmosphere.

The transition is jarring, to say the least.

Garrett scrunches up his eyebrows, the lyrics filtering through his mind in a molasses-slow manner.

The instrumental of La Vie en Rose is playing, and Simon takes the lead, crooning out the words in a tone too tempered by alcohol-induced adrenaline for it to be anything but warbly. Though, it’s still good, Garrett has to give him this, even though it’s barely skimming the line between artfully experimental and outright bad.

A sort of quietness steals over the room, muffling the sugary, euphoric energy, and then suddenly it feels like a drowsy spell has washed over them. Turning everyone half-sleepy, half-comfortable.

Bram’s mouth closes, and he is staring at Simon, transfixed, just like most of the audience - except for the kid passed out in the corner over there, which is obviously a given. The grin on Bram’s face loosens at the seams, and one of the lights overhead starts pulsing cherry-red, illuminating his features in an eye-squinting glow.

Simon keeps at it, oblivious to the attention he’s just garnered. To the dopey glaze in Bram’s eyes. To the stupidly dazed twist of Bram’s mouth when Simon looks him right in the face with an almost sober expression, halfway done with the song.

Garrett laughs. He’s that far-gone?

(Well, _objectively_ speaking, Simon’s easy on the eyes. Plus, he’s pretty funny when he’s not trying. So he’s a package deal, Garrett supposes.)

Garrett exhales. Deeply. For some reason, he feels awkward now, like he’s just intruded on a private moment. Stumbled into a pocket of peacefulness with tactless grace. But whatever this is, it’s managed to summon the nonexistent William Wordsworth side of Garrett from his hidey-hole. Got him thinking about airy, sunlit rooms with open windows and ukulele music and swirling dust motes and - chamomile tea? What’s next, chiffon cake? Lace curtains?

Garrett shakes his head, and the image disperses, reality reassembling itself in a dizzying, earth-tilting burst.

The beer in his gut settles a little - mutates into something viscous, gooey. Pleasant. It does the job of sobering him up slightly, blunting his hard-boned annoyance and affording him the coherence to stumble to his kitchen and chug down a shit-ton of water. Because hydration, you know.

When Garrett returns, an obnoxious beat has started to kick into full-gear, grating at his eardrums. Simon’s begun to slur the verses now, but still Bram stands, blanked-out, dazed.

Damn.

Indisputable fact of the day: Bram Greenfeld has got got got it bad for Simon Spier.

(That statement might as well be Newton’s Fourth Law.)

 

**iii. we’ve got this crazy chemistry**

 

They’re supposed to be studying for an important biology test coming up next week, but as per usual it’s not going so well. Simon’s sprawled belly-down on his bed, making noises of affirmation every time Bram rereads a paragraph he seems to be unclear on, but it’s evident Simon’s not actually paying any attention. Like at all.

“Si, focus,” Bram says in a tone one would use to calmly reprimand a child, tapping his knuckles against Simon’s forehead. “I get that it’s tough stuff to slog through, but you’re not making it any easier on yourself.”

Simon lets out a disgruntled sigh. “Easy for you to say, you nerd,” he jokes. “I mean, the lateralization of cortical function? Must be child’s play, right?” He peers at the notes in Bram’s hand. Groans. “Seriously? Ugh.” His brow knits together in a frown. “Whatever you do, do not tell me that the evolutionary adaptation of axon structure is going to be there. Or I’m going to freak out.”

By freak out, what Simon really means is that he’s going to take a nap, but okay.

Fortunately, Simon does end up focusing. Just a little bit. Enough to get by, at least. By the time Bram’s worked through the specifics of synaptic connections, Simon seems to be slowly getting it. Great. Super. But it also means that Bram’s brain is fried and in desperate need of a recharge, so he takes this moment to recline against the wall.

Watch Simon instead.

There’s sunlight streaming in through the propped-open window, pale gold, and it paints the room in watercolour shades, sort of smudging it out. Setting alight the brown of Simon’s hair. Simon’s gaze is half-lidded where it traverses through the dense subject matter, skirting the edge of both abject misery and fuck-this-I’m-out indifference. There’s a smear of highlighter ink on his chin, and there, along his jaw, an ink smudge, and -

God. Bram doesn’t want to think about kissing him.

(But he does, and he feels like a mess.)

Simon should stop looking so damn cute. Really. Because it never fails to ignite in Bram a heat that’s capable of turning him weak-kneed and fluttery inside. It doesn’t help that it somehow has a consistency that sticks like honey and hardens like glue, long-lasting and diffusive.

Bram doesn’t know how long he spends staring.

A while, Bram finds out when it occurs to him that Simon’s hazel eyes are boring right into his own dark ones. At least, long enough for his gaze to have gained physical weight and alerted Simon. So maybe a good ten minutes. Or fifteen. Twenty, possibly, but hey, who’s counting?

“You’re staring at me,” Simon says, rolling over and propping himself up into a cross-legged position. “I got dirt on my face or what?”

They’ve been dating for some time that Bram shouldn’t get so worked up anymore, but he does, actually blushing along the curves of his cheekbones. Then Simon is reddening, too, spots of high colour blooming on his face, and suddenly it seems as if the _newness_ of their relationship that had melted along the way has begun to resurface again.

But whatever that is, it has a different feel to it. A different shape. And it’s got Bram feeling slightly vulnerable, slightly exposed, even if it doesn’t make any sense because it’s not like he hasn’t done this before.

Simon shifts closer until his knee bumps against Bram’s. “So … were you going to say something cheesy, Greenfeld?” he says half-jokingly, his voice pitched low enough for it to be a whisper. And here, Bram can see exactly where his blush gives way to pale skin. Bram’s eyes lower, and he gets full view of Simon’s jaw sloping down to the curve of his neck, the stretch of it enticing and oxygen-stealing.

Bram swallows. Looks up. Simon’s eyes are pinned on him in an appraising sort of manner, and when his hand ghosts over Bram’s, Bram finds himself relaxing, like Simon’s skin is sunlight and Bram’s flesh a sun-starved thing desperate for warmth.

“Do you want me to?” Bram says, intending for his tone to come off as teasing but achieving the exact opposite of that effect.

A small laugh slips past Simon’s lips - a warm rush of air against Bram’s mouth. It’s a nice laugh, breathy and throaty, raspy where it starts and ending off hushed. Then, Simon tilts his head, angles it just so that his face is half-immersed in shadow. In the new lighting his eyes are dusky, night-dark. Seemingly burning with heat-filled promises.

His fingers find Bram’s. Tapping, gliding. “You know,” Simon says, his voice infused with a sort of newfound confidence that inspires in Bram an urge to lean in closer.  “The way you look at me …” He trails off, brow furrowed, as though in search of a forgotten word, some ancient relic in the bowels of memory. Then, the doe-eyed shyness returns in full-force, softening all sharp corners, stifling the heady, growing rush of want. “This may sound weird, but I look at you like that, too,” he says, and obviously, there are no cosmic alignments. No rose-tinted film filters.

But the words hold in the air, strong and true, and Bram’s breathing changes, hitching slightly.

“Look who’s the cheesy one, Spier,” Bram says, and before he knows it Simon is drawing their mouths together. Taking the lead.

A guttural, low sound emits from the back of Bram’s throat. Heat pools in his belly once again, red-hot, overwhelming. The kiss starts off close-mouthed, slow and lazy, Simon’s palms gently cupping Bram’s face, but soon it turns into something more, like it always does - a needy, fervent push-and-pull.

And then Simon’s hands are on Bram’s hips, trailing upwards beneath the hem of his shirt, languid and deliberate. They slide up his chest, prompting shudders to ripple down Bram’s spine. Simon’s tongue is burning in his mouth, and well, fuck, Bram is going to combust.

Simon’s gotten so good at it that the high in Bram’s blood has gone up a notch, intensifying, growing hotter. It’s indicative that they’ve definitely gone past the awkward, klutzy fumbling stage. This boy knows exactly what he’s doing, and if Bram were in Congress, he’d draft a bill to make this illegal.

God, the things Simon does to him.

“You’re so hot," Simon murmurs against his lips, the words reedy, stretched thin.

"Simon," Bram groans out, lowly, pushing Simon back, and then his own lips are tracing the path of Simon's jaw, down to the column of his throat in idle exploration. By the time Bram reaches Simon's collarbones, Simon's breathing is coming out in raw, ragged stretches, his face flushed with a pleasant burn.

"I'm going to be wearing scarves for a week," Simon gets out thickly.

Bram looks up. Meets Simon's eyes, which are narrowed in mischievous accusation and framed by the dark swoop of his eyelashes.

Bram lowers his head again, and snickers into the junction between Simon's neck and shoulders. Then not even a few seconds later Simon is bringing up Bram's jaw to kiss him full on the mouth again. Bram lets Simon do most of the work, lets him trace, map, search, and they don't end up stopping until there's a knock on the door.

By then, the pale blue of the sky outside has deepened to blue-violet, and Bram, as he's hurriedly smoothing out his clothes, thinks: kissing Simon Spier feels a lot like being at the top of the world. Because both always leave him breathless and wide-eyed. Wonderstruck.

**Author's Note:**

> me @ moi: what about that fake dating au  
> me: no no hoe don’t --  
> mood rn: squidward panicking bcs my hand is about to slip  
> also, come talk to me on my *reads smudged handwriting* [tungle](http://ellesvevo.tumblr.com/)


End file.
